tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45393318349843112472024-03-13T14:58:49.777-07:00Becoming SquishyA blog about parenting, kids, and the crazy that ensues when it all comes together for one mother of two little boys.Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.comBlogger99125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-8229960374775617012015-01-10T14:53:00.006-08:002015-01-10T14:53:48.075-08:00The Little One is Four! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This last week, the Little One turned four. I am in shock. Four is huge. Four is old. My baby is a <i>kid</i> now. It's freaking me out.<br />
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Initially, he was highly pissed off about turning four. He wanted to skip directly to five so he could be the same age as the Big One. I had to break the bad news that skipping four wouldn't work because, unfortunately, math. But! On his birthday he woke up and announced, "I four! I not mad at four anymore. I happy!" And so we usher in a new year for the tiny fella. Who, by the way, is not so tiny. He's huge in fact. Did I mention that his rapid growth is freaking me out? BECAUSE IT IS.<br />
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The Little One, who is a total anomaly in the Squishy Family, does not like cupcakes. He doesn't like cake. Or cookies. I know. <i>I know. </i>I can't figure it out either. But he does love doughnuts, and that's what he wanted for his birthday treat. So, we trucked on down to the doughnut shop and got all hopped up on sugar and fat and celebrated our new four year old. And it was good. He got to have his Special Day at school, we made a poster of hilarious pictures of his tiny Nutella covered self, and general goodness happened. So here's to the Little One. Happy birthday, my little love. Thank you for bringing your goofy self into our lives. xoxo<br />
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* * *<br />
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Also, the holidays happened. We schlepped the kiddos across the country to be with family and we saw so many people and got to say "I love you" in person, which is just as it should be at the holidays. But hot damn, traveling with 2 little kids is a pain in the ass. OY. Thank everything for travel DVD players.<br />
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I hope you had lovely holidays, oh Squishy readers. I hope you were surrounded by love and food and drink and family and had the chance to relax. Or, if not, I hope you were at least able to binge-watch a couple of HBO or Netflix series while eating ice cream in bed.<br />
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Also also, I did some writing. I was honored to have a piece from this blog posted over at<a href="http://themanifeststation.net/2014/11/23/alone/" target="_blank"> The Manifest-Station</a>. It's such a lovely site and the work there is just stunning. I feel truly lucky to have joined the incredibly writers featured over there.<br />
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And I had pieces up (the same day, even!) at my regular gigs: My latest at Luna Luna, <a href="http://lunalunamag.com/2014/12/11/girl-fight-men-women-still-need-feminism/" target="_blank">Girl Fight,</a> and my latest at Rattle & Pen, <a href="http://rattleandpen.org/2014/12/11/the-imagining/" target="_blank">The Imagining</a>.<br />
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* * *<br />
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And, as always, weird stuff continues to come out of our mouths. Weird Stuff We Say, Part 2037483!<br />
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Now featuring the all new "My Grampa" series! Crazy stories the Little One makes up about his grandpa. None of them are true. All of them are hilarious.<br />
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Little One: "My grampa has a feet beard!"<br />
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"My grampa had a pet apple!"<br />
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"My grampa has a house farm with cows and chickens and sheeps. And one more. A T-Rex! And a moose and a lion."<br />
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"My grampa has an apple city!"<br />
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Daddy: "It's really not hard Little One, I'm telling you what to think."<br />
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Daddy: "I want you to like me."<br />
Me: "I do like you."<br />
Daddy: "But not like a pet."<br />
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Little One: (while excitedly singing the ABCs) "2 R S, T U 3..."<br />
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<br />
Little One:<br />
crashbrowns = hashbrowns<br />
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<br />Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-74552112264997564542014-11-18T21:07:00.000-08:002014-11-18T23:52:21.234-08:00For The Times, They Are A'ChanginSo, hi there. I, uh... I'm sorry I haven't called. Er... written. I mean, I know you feel like we're growing apart. It's not you, it's me. How are you?<br />
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I dunno. I got nothin. Life is busy? Kids and stuff? The school year started? OH! HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS! School started! I have a kindergartener! I HAVE A KINDERGARTENER. That's insane. I'm a little bit baffled by this particular development. He cannot possibly be in school. Like, <i>actual </i>school. Except that he is. And it's completely terrifying.<br />
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Not for him, of course. He's totally fine. He loves it. It's terrifying for ME. I mean... he's out there just, like, living his life. WITHOUT ME.<br />
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I know. I KNOW. That's precisely what he's supposed to be doing. It's good for him. We all have to do it eventually. Autonomy n' shit. Yeah, yeah. But jesus, it is hard letting him just wander around in the world doing things and learning things and struggling through things and only getting the tiniest snippet of what that's like for him. It's harder than I thought it would be.<br />
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This was the Big One's very first day of kindergarten, and look:<br />
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Who's the one marching along, head down, looking all forlorn and pouty? Not him. He's fine. IT'S ME.<br />
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After we dropped him off that day, we came home and I was completely overwhelmed with this terrifying feeling that it was over. Our time together was done. I sat in his room and cried and because he doesn't belong to us anymore. I mourned <i>us</i>.<br />
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That's completely melodramatic and slightly ridiculous, but it's also kind of true. The us we were doesn't really exist anymore. I've been home with him since he was born, and I've been a part of his entire life -- including his education -- up until now because of co-op preschool. (What? We live in Seattle. It's awesome. Shut up.) Now, he has this whole life at school that I'm not a part of for the first time in his life and it's a bit sad. I don't really know what his days are like, and I miss that. I miss watching him experience things for the first time.<br />
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He's doing well though, and we've worked our way through the transition hiccups and he's becoming this little <i>person</i>. This little person who's starting to read! Which !!!!!!<br />
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So anyway, big changes à Chez Squishy. Because in addition to the Big One starting kindergarten? The Little One started preschool. And DUDE was that kid excited. Like, AMPED. He has been waiting to go to school for a year and NOW HE GETS TO GO AND OMG. It's the cutest. Every day he's excited to go, and every day he leaps out of class and into my arms and says, "Mommy! I work and sing and play!" And I melt into a giant puddle of oozy love. I get to be with him in class once a week and watch him do all these amazing things... Actually, he mostly just plays with the blocks and trucks and sandbox. Like, pretty much the whole time. But he's SO HAPPY about it. He'll shake it up soon, I'm sure. Or not. Whatever. He's happy.<br />
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My little squishies, they are growing up. Oof. That stings a little.<br />
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I <i>have</i> been working on getting things published (and writing things that are publishable), so there's that monopolizing my time. But it's working! I posted in August (oh... is that the last time I posted? OOPS) about my pieces in <a href="http://www.brainchildmag.com/2014/08/what-i-will-teach-my-boys/" target="_blank">Brain, Child Magazine</a>, and <a href="http://lunalunamag.com/2014/08/04/living-gray-coming-34-sort/" target="_blank">Luna Luna Magazine</a>, but what I forgot to tell you is:<br />
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1. My piece in Brain, Child then went up on <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/brain-child/what-i-will-teach-my-boys_b_5787088.html" target="_blank">HuffPo</a> and 15,000 people <i>liked</i> it on Facebook (so conceivably more than that read it) and WHOA. I was totally blown away to even be there, and deeply honored to reach that kind of audience. Amazing.<br />
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And...<br />
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2. I'm now a <a href="http://lunalunamag.com/author/shannonb/" target="_blank">staff writer</a> for Luna Luna Magazine! I am so excited to be a part of Luna Luna and look forward to writing much more there. We talk lit, we talk feminism, we talk pop culture, we talk makeup, we talk tarot, we talk about all kinds of things and you should come on over and check it out.<br />
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So... stuff is happening! There's more coming out soon, too. It's a little surreal that I'm actually getting my work out there, and it is such a thrill to know that people want to publish and read the things I write. But even more meaningful is the idea that something I've written might have helped somebody. Or made them laugh. Or made them think. Or made them say, "Me, too." Ultimately, that's all I want.<br />
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And also, I got new glasses for the first time in 15 years. Turns out you should really have your eyes checked more than once every 15 years! Go figure. Here they are:<br />
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And with that, I'll leave you with the promise that there will be more from me soon and in the meantime... bizarre word combos that come out of our mouths. You're welcome.<br />
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<u>Weird Stuff We Say</u><br />
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Daddy: "No. A penguin doesn't need a vacuum."<br />
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Daddy: "Who's on my team?!?"<br />
Little One: "Not me!"<br />
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Little One: "My baby toe is 'llergic to dogs and cats."<br />
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Little One: "Mommy? You smell dat fart? Oh... dat not a fart. Dat the fries."<br />
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Daddy: "Did you wipe your nose, Little One?"<br />
Little One: "Yep."<br />
Daddy: "Then why are you wiping your nose on your shirt?"<br />
Little One: "Because dere's booger water in dere."<br />
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Daddy: "Stop it. Just sit for one minute and be happy with your life."<br />
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Big One: "Sometimes, I accidentally eat toilet paper."<br />
Me: "How's that taste?"<br />
Big One: *pause* "Not very good."<br />
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(Apparently he was referring to when he's blowing his nose and the toilet paper gets stuck in his mouth. So at least he's not INTENTIONALLY eating toilet paper. There's that. Tiny victories!)<br />
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Big One: "Daddy? I need a cookie. Cookies help me remember stuff."<br />
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Little One:<br />
bongo beans = garbanzo beans<br />
bandeds = band-aids<br />
tattoon = tattoo<br />
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Big One:<br />
Star Vors = Star Wars<br />
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P.S. here's how I know having children causes you to lose your mind: My children made me start a puzzle with them and then abandoned me with the puzzle and then I really wanted to finish the damn puzzle BUT THEY KEPT WALKING ON THE PUZZLE. And then I was angry. The end.<br />
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P.P.S. the Big One declared that he would have a band called "Hands Droppin' Through a Tile." He would play the drums. I would play the maracas. Little One would play guitar. Daddy would sing.<br />
WE HAVE A RETIREMENT PLAN, Y'ALL.Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-23922846233142603402014-08-26T20:41:00.003-07:002014-08-26T20:41:37.724-07:00Talking About ItI have a new essay up at <a href="http://www.brainchildmag.com/brain-mother/" target="_blank">Brain, Mother</a> right now about approaching sex and permission and rape with my boys.<br />
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It was another tough one to write, both because it's deeply personal, but also because it's hard to imagine my boys ever doing anything brutal. Still, I think it's something we have to consider as parents so that we can figure out how to teach them NOT to do these things. All the rapists out there were someone's child. Parents have the to power to stop it. Maybe not all of it, but we can sure as hell try.<br />
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So anyway, <a href="http://www.brainchildmag.com/2014/08/what-i-will-teach-my-boys/" target="_blank">here's my essay</a>. I would be honored if you read it. And perhaps you'll find something there that will help you speak to your kids about these difficult subjects. No one wants to talk about it, but sadly everyone needs to.<br />
<br />
xoShannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-2277413762573364572014-08-05T20:00:00.000-07:002014-08-05T20:00:25.091-07:00ClosetsSo, today I came out on the internets.<br />
<br />
Kinda. Halfway out? I came halfway out on the internets? I was only halfway in the first place. I don't know. I told the whole wide world that I am neither here nor there, that I am nebulous, and it felt both glorious and terrifying. Because OMG I CAME OUT ON THE INTERNETS.<br />
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I've been expecting somebody to say something godawful to me, although -shockingly- that hasn't happened yet. It will, I'm sure, but for now I'm enjoying the overwhelming and unexpected support and kindness being thrown my way. Did you know there are still so many lovely people out there? I KNOW. I'm a little surprised, too.<br />
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Anyway, it's been good. I'm so grateful Luna Luna Magazine picked it up, and I'm so grateful for the support they've given me and my writing. And I'm grateful that it's not something I'll have to worry about anymore. It'll be nice not to have to remember who knows and who doesn't. It'll be nice to just <i>be,</i> as much as anyone can.<br />
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I wrote this essay because I think a lot of people live in the middle, like me, and don't quite know how to explain. I hope that this might give a few people the encouragement- the support- they need to understand that there's nothing wrong with the middle. I hope.<br />
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Most importantly, I hope my kids are never afraid of the middle. I hope that if they find themselves unsure or confused or definitively in the gray, I hope they won't be afraid. I hope they'll talk to me, or if they're too afraid to do that, I hope they'll know that I will always always love them, and anything nebulous or ambiguous or gray about them is part of what I love.<br />
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So it's out there. Like me. And I hope we both do some good things in the world.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://lunalunamag.com/2014/08/04/living-gray-coming-34-sort/" target="_blank">Living in the Gray.</a>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-88825331233987148932014-07-23T15:05:00.000-07:002014-07-23T15:05:39.590-07:00Of Patience and Spontaneous CombustionSo, I've been thinking a lot about patience lately. Namely, because I have none. The kiddos are testing my limits these days, (SUMMER!!) and oof. Just... oof.<br />
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Yesterday, I very nearly burst into flames MULTIPLE TIMES. Holy hell, these kids sometimes. I love them, but JUST LISTEN TO ME AND FOLLOW MY DIRECTIONS SO I DON'T FEEL THE NEED TO STAB MYSELF IN THE EYE PLEASE. Turns out I didn't burst into actual flames though, so I win. Sort of.<br />
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Anyway, I wrote a thing about it over at Rattle and Pen. <a href="http://rattleandpen.org/2014/07/14/patience-after-kids/" target="_blank">Read it</a>, won't ya?<br />
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Also, I am delighted to discover that other people have this very same problem. It's a thing, Squishies! It's a thing! This piece by Paige Kellerman over at HuffPo rings true for me. And gives me the giggles. It's about patience and saying "fuck" a lot. A friend recommended I go read it AND I JUST HAVE NO IDEA WHY. Eh em.<br />
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Here's a tiny snippet:<br />
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<strong style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>How Not to Swear Around Kids</i></strong></div>
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<i>1. Don't be around children at all.</i></div>
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<i>2. If you ignored number one, the key here is to pinpoint where your kids are going to be during the day and then go hide.</i></div>
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<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/paige-kellerman/how-not-to-swear-around-kids_b_5609813.html?ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000037" target="_blank">Read it </a>and pee your pants a little bit. Seriously.<br />
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While you're reading those, I'll be over here working and wrangling kids and trying to find time to write all the things I have to write. And taking my kids to swimming lessons in the pouring rain. That's right. Outdoor swimming lessons IN THE RAIN. What? I live in Seattle, people. Ain't no thang.<br />
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<br />Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-6407966704002976462014-07-09T15:29:00.002-07:002014-07-09T15:32:23.882-07:00Summer and Weird Stuff Parents SayHi! I keep disappearing! I apologize!<br />
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Things have been busy with work and submissions and a summer filled with swimming lessons and trying to keep my kids entertained and slightly less whiny (I'm failing spectacularly on that one, by the way), and so I haven't had much time to write here. But I will! I swear! I WILL MAKE IT HAPPEN. For you, my Squishies. For you.<br />
<br />
Turbo updates:<br />
- The Big One has decided to no longer eat meat. Unless it's bacon. Or deep-fried. Otherwise, he has a real problem with it. So now with the Little One's sensitivity to dairy, things have gotten really interesting when it comes to meal planning. Suddenly, I'm accidentally vegan quite often.<br />
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-We went on a family vacation with my husband's parents on the Oregon coast! It was beautiful and chilly and the boys got to build sandcastles and run in a HOUSE and play and be kids and that was fantastic. Also, this happened:<br />
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<br />
-Swimming lessons! They're taking them. And while I was thoroughly terrified that they'd drown (or the secondary drowning, good god, and if you don't know what I'm talking about DON'T LOOK IT UP or you will never stop worrying ever), they haven't. And they love it. And I get to watch them love it for 30 minutes every day while sitting in the sun wearing 900 liters of sunscreen.<br />
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-Summer! So much free time! SO MUCH FREE TIME. For them, of course, not for me. I'm trying to keep them busy enough so we don't all lose our minds, and I'm trying to work. Which really means keep them busy, still losing our minds, and I don't start working until 8:30pm. ppffffttth.<br />
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-I don't know what else! Both kids will be in school (Little One in preschool, Big One in kindergarten OHMYGOD) in the fall, and I don't quite know what to do with that. We'll discuss it later.<br />
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Anyhoo. In the midst of all this busy, I've been writing down weird things that keep coming out of my and my husband's mouths, so here. I offer these nuggets of odd as a peace offering. YOU'RE WELCOME.<br />
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* * *<br />
<u>Weird Things Parents Say</u><br />
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After finding that my kids had ripped the bottom of a shopping bag, just to check it out, I said: "Much like the cardboard at the bottom of the xfinity bag, the children are destroying me so they can find out what I'm made of." And it's true. They totally are. (And like the xfinity bag, they're finding I'm sort of shoddily held together.)<br />
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"Everyone leave everyone's butt alone."<br />
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"Please be nice to your penis."<br />
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"When's the last time you changed your underwear?"<br />
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"I'm sorry I made you mad when I asked you not to call me dead."<br />
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"And that's a marble. Don't eat that."<br />
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"No. We don't shoot anyone with our butts."<br />
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* * *<br />
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And, of course, the kids out-weird us sometimes, so here's some stuff they say, too. Both weird and adorable.<br />
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<u>Little One</u><br />
<br />
After the Big One got up from the table for the zillionth time to go blow his nose: "Brudder! He pit-peered! He witch! I fwared of him." (Translation: Brother! He disappeared! He's a witch! I'm scared of him.)<br />
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cerebra = zebra<br />
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callcano- volcano<br />
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Toefood = tofu<br />
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You-me = we; as in, "You-me played soccer!" or "You-me going to da park?"<br />
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Little One [while eating waffles]:"Mommy!! Der sugar in dere?"<br />
Me: [Nodding] Mm-hmm.<br />
Little One: "I wuv sugar! I wuv it!"<br />
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While I was singing an improvised song during dessert, the Little One said, "Mommy? Dat song not good for eating." Always a critic.<br />
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<u>Big One</u><br />
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"Mommy? I love a little artist like me. Do you?"<br />
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amblee-ance = ambulance<br />
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apple critter = apple fritter<br />
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"These blueberries are so organic that I love them." I love my tiny hippy.<br />
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"Daddy? I am so compacted with laughs."<br />
<br />Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-59244632904245025862014-04-25T14:38:00.001-07:002014-05-03T11:39:37.093-07:00Writing Process Blog Tour: Part IIIThe third installment of the Writing Process Blog Tour I've been participating in is up over at Rattle & Pen! You can check it out <a href="http://rattleandpen.org/2014/04/24/writing-in-the-dark-week-three-of-the-writing-process-blog-tour/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
It's been such a pleasure (and mildly terrifying) to think through my process as a writer. I'm still learning how to do this well. Hearing about how Kirsten Sundberg Lunstrum and Ginny Robinson at R&P think about their work and sometimes struggle to put thoughts to page is delightfully reassuring.<br />
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If you're a maker of anything- art, food, people, crafts- I highly recommend you read the full series thus far. I guarantee you'll find something that helps you breathe a sigh of relief. Making is hard work, people. But it is always worth it.<br />
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Big thanks to Lauren Gordon, also of R&P, for <a href="http://thisboatisobviouslysinking.com/2014/03/28/my-writing-process-blog-tour/" target="_blank">sharing her process on her own blog, and inviting me to participate</a> as well.<br />
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I am honored to be a part of the community of women writers over at Rattle & Pen. And I'm always honored when anyone reads what I have to say.<br />
<br />
Thank you, dear Squishies, for riding this ride with me.Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-25324718214080835942014-04-06T15:18:00.001-07:002014-04-06T15:18:36.226-07:00THE NEFARIOUS POTTY TRAINING POSTOh, hey! A thing happened! A glorious thing! A thing we parents fret over and suffer over and cause our children to suffer over! And that thing is called.... POTTY TRAINING.<br />
Buh-buh-bummmmm.<br />
<br />
Potty training happened in the House of Squishy. In fact, it happened over a month ago, but I was too frightened to write about it, lest I jinx it and kill it dead. But that didn't happen! It stuck! And I will tell you something: I did not do the potty training. Nope. I can take zero credit for this occurrence. This was, exclusively, AN ACT OF THE LITTLE ONE.<br />
<br />
You see, potty training is a nightmare. I know this, all parents know this, and secretly, I think all kids know this too. There's so much push and pull and stress and MONEY that goes into the damn process (the books, the DVDs, the products, OH MY!), and really... we have no control over this situation. I really, truly believe it. NOT IN CHARGE HERE.<br />
<br />
So, we've had the little potty and potty seat out and available for a good year. The Little One had periodically shown interest, but that interest quickly waned when he realized we were getting excited. "Oh, you want me to do that? Cool. I'm totally not gonna do that."<br />
<br />
We went back and forth with him showing interest in sitting on the potty for like a week, and then it was all, "NO! NO POTTY. I WEAR DIAPERS." He was fond of diapers. He was comfortable in them, and he did not want to quit them. Even around 2.5 when we broke out the beloved character underpants, he'd want to wear them, pee in them within 10 minutes of putting them on, and be TOTALLY SHOCKED AND TRAUMATIZED that he'd just peed on Lightning McQueen. Every. Time. For months it seemed like he had no awareness whatsoever of when he might need to pee. He'd look up all wide-eyed and baffled, hollering, "Mommy? I pee? Pee in my underpants? OH NO!!!" Completely shocked every time pee exited his body.<br />
<br />
And he had never once peed in the potty any of the times he'd sat on it. Not once. Never. So, not surprisingly, we didn't think he was ready. He was resistant, had no body awareness, and just not into it. So, fine. The Little One is a child that you DO NOT push (unless you want to experience the wrath of Kali + Demeter + Old Testament Yahweh), so we decided not to push it.<br />
<br />
Then one day, in his diaper, the Little One grabbed his crotch and yelled, "I GOTTA PEE!!" with utter urgency. And volume. I whisked him into the bathroom, where we ripped off his diaper, sat him on the potty, AND THE CHILD PEED. For the first time ever in the potty. It was a goddamn miracle. And then, I asked if he wanted to wear underpants, and he said yes. And he wore them for the rest of the day and continued to announce when he needed to pee and only had one accident that day and two the next and that's it and oh-my-god-how-did-this-awesomeness-happen!?!?<br />
<br />
There were two instances of pants-shitting (both proceeded by blood-curdling screams that, shockingly, did not tip us off that he was about to poop rather than die or burst into flames), but even that seems to be over. *manically knocks on every reachable wood surface*<br />
<br />
So... now he's potty trained? It's all very weird and anticlimactic, really. And I realize this is the post where you all decide you hate me forever and I AM NOT COMPLAINING. Trust me. It was just so weird! He decided and he did it and that was that.<br />
<br />
I don't know why I'm surprised since the Big One did the exact same thing when he was only 2 years old... but, dude. I can tell you one thing. We had a full on NO MORE DIAPERS party. There were donuts, there was dancing, there was joy and laughter. And also, my house no longer smell like shit! Or... well... I do have two boys. So, I suppose my house smells less like shit? WHO CARES. No more diapers. <br />
<br />
Holy shit. No more diapers! It's a whole new world, people. A world in which I have a lot less literal shit to handle, and I can get down with that. Oh yes, I can.<br />
<br />
<br />Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-41537046288669081142014-03-09T11:12:00.003-07:002014-03-09T11:12:46.347-07:00New Essay: Rattle & PenMy latest essay is up at Rattle & Pen! This one's about the Education of Parents and the shocking revelation that sometimes, it's not helping us. At all. Check it out <a href="http://rattleandpen.org/2014/03/09/education-of-parents/" target="_blank">here</a>, won't you?<br />
<br />
More soon....Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-86292155357060219232014-02-26T20:47:00.000-08:002014-02-26T20:48:44.502-08:00Guide To Surviving Urgent Care and More Stuff They SayWe took yet another trip to Urgent Care a few weeks ago, and although it sucked as always, I'm, unfortunately, getting pretty good at this.<br />
<br />
So I'm going to go ahead and claim it: I am now an expert on surviving Urgent Care with two toddler boys in tow. Learn from my experience, won't you? <br />
(But for gods sake... avoid Urgent Care like the plague. Bubble wrap those kids if you have to.) <br />
<br />
Take this guide and pack it away in your purse. You're gonna need it.<br />
<br />
<u>Guide To Surviving Urgent Care: The Toddler Years</u><br />
<br />
What to Bring:<br />
<ul>
<li>Food: They'll get hungry and complain incessantly and LOUDLY about how starving they are. People will start to stare. Bring lots, though, because they will throw or drop have of it, and UGH, those floors.</li>
<li>Books: They need something to look at or have read to them while you take part in the epic wait-fest that is Urgent Care. Reading material is essential. Bring lots, though, because they will drop or throw half of them and UGH, those floors.</li>
<li>Toys: Anything that's not huge or loud will do. Toy cars, little dolls, an abacus, whatever. As long as it's portable and will keep them busy for more than 5 seconds, toss it in the bag. But bring multiples- and don't bring anything deeply beloved- because they will throw or drop half of them and UGH, those floors.</li>
<li>Proof of the responsible, loving relationship you have with your children: Let's face it. The second you arrive in Urgent Care with your kid, you begin a CPS checklist. You'll want to show that yes, in fact, you're an awesome parent and no, thanks, you were not being negligent when your kid split his head open/broke her arm/swallowed that thing.</li>
<li>Patience: You'll need this in spades because, as I mentioned, the wait will be horribly long. And people everywhere will look terrifying. You'll have to keep your children (especially the hurt/sick one) entertained and distracted while that guy in the corner hacks up his intestines.</li>
<li>Your insurance information. Because Urgent Care = $$$$$$$$</li>
</ul>
<div>
What Not to Bring:</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Anything that matters to you: Lovies, favorite books, slaved-over meals, your sanity... Anything that matters to you will be lost in the Urgent Care vortex. Or it will be dropped on those floors. And UGH, those floors.</li>
</ul>
</div>
<div>
<br />
You're welcome. Now, get thee to the UPS store and get a jumbo roll of bubble wrap for your kids.<br />
(Remember not to wrap it too tightly or cover their faces, though, because that will also send you Urgent Care and UGH, those floors.)</div>
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
Also, while the children weren't doing things that land them in Urgent Care, they were staying funny stuff. Wanna hear it? <br />
<br />
<u>Big One</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
Big One: "Daddy! We're making a new place for the fan!"<br />
Daddy: "That scares me. A lot."<br />
<br />
<u>Little One</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
Little One: "Mommy? Why you have farts on your cup?"<br />
Me: "WHAT?!? OH. Stars! Stars on my cup! They're there because they're pretty."<br />
Little One: "Farts. Farts on your cup. Mommy? Noooo... farts outside! Aw. Is too dark. Can't see farts outside."<br />
<br />
Daddy: "You're starting to talk like a human being!"<br />
Little One: "I not a bean! You a bean. You a big bean!"<br />
<br />
After it snowed: "Mommy! I foop the hfnow!!" (Translation: Mommy! I scoop the snow!)<br />
<br />
Upon seeing light reflected on the top of my coffee: "Frank the wite, Mommy!" (Translation: Drink the light, Mommy! My little poet.)<br />
<br />
paterpillar = caterpillar<br />
<br />
Since turning 3, the Little One has been SO excited about the possibility of going to school or a class. Today, he talked randomly about going again and this was what he had to say:<br />
Little One: "I go school!! Teacher WUV me."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-23836347874918142082014-01-12T17:21:00.000-08:002014-01-12T17:29:08.013-08:00I'm Employed! (And More Stuff They Say)<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Life has changed in the House of Squishy- yes, indeedy. I just got a job writing (for money!!) and it is the perfect combination of my (former?) teacher life, and my writing life. It's both! At the same time! But I can wear pajamas! Because this gig, my friend, is a work-from-home gig. Which is awesome! And hard. Because I have children.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
We are now two parents working from home and learning the ropes of working at home AND learning the ropes of our new work-from-home gigs. Which means, of course, that our two part time work-from-home jobs are actually two full time, work-any-spare-second jobs and WHOA. This is a transition. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
Thankfully, we're both delighted about our new gigs. And, thankfully, we're both feeling pleasantly challenged ( I DO still have a brain! Who knew?!?) and happy to be getting paid to do what we each paid 29872384234 gazillion dollars to learn to do. So that helps. But currently one or both of us is ALWAYS WORKING and that is a pain in the ass. Also, the kids are not enjoying that aspect. The following sentence is common around these parts: "I know. Mommy/Daddy's working." Following by a HEAVY sigh and seven thousand tiny violins.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
Poor kiddos. Change is hard. I get it. It's hard on us, it's hard on them, it's hard on the whole family unit. Honestly, I'm a little confused about how to do it right because these 1am jaunts are kicking my ass. And Mr. Squishy's, too. We're figuring it out, though, and slowly but surely I feel like there's a light at the end of this damn tunnel we've been living in. This tunnel that still manages to have asshole neighbors.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
It's exciting to be on the road to stability and to feel that we're BOTH taking part in everything again. We have been all along, of course, but now it's easy to see from an outside perspective, and that brings relief. Now, we both have to take on the kids, we both have to do stuff around the house, and we both have to work. I've loved being a stay-at-home parent (and technically, i still am a SAHM), but hot-damn is it nice to know that I'm not going to have to respond to this anymore: "Oh, you're a stay-at-home mom! So... what do you DO all day, anyway?" Oy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
So here's to stay-at-home moms! And stay-at-home dads! And here's to working parents! And to work-from-home parents! And to every possible variation in between! We're all working our heinies off and, shit people, we all deserve a drink and a night off. ONE DAY. Cheers to all of you. (And our kiddos, too.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><u><br /></u>
* * *So, even though I'm working now, I'm still also home with my kids. So I still hear the delightfully ridiculous things that come out of their mouths. Wanna hear? I THOUGHT SO.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><u><br /></u>
<u>Big One</u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><u><br /></u>
Daddy (while reading <u>The Grinch Who Stole Christmas</u>): "<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;"> And the one speck of food that he left in the house was </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;">a crumb that was even too small for a mouse</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;">."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Big One: "Well... the microbes will eat it."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Daddy: "Thank you for sharing with your brother."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Big One: "But I hate sharing."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Daddy: "Don't hate sharing."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Big One: "But I have to hate something."</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"And then this song came on, and I was like, 'YEAH. That's my jam!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"glitter" = litter; as in, "Mommy? Why do people glitter?"<br />
<br /><br /><u>Little One</u><br />"flumber" = slumber; as in, "Flumber! I flumbing! Brudder? I fleep. I fleeping."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"fleep" = sleep</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"telesgoat" = telescope</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"microfope" or "microsgoat" = microscope</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"pisspeer" = disappear</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"hair rawr-oo" = where are you</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"shrank" = drink</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"freet" = treat</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The above 3 just resulted in the following sentence: "Hair rawr-ooooo, Brudder? I get a shrank and a freet!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
* * *</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">AND, I'm still happily contributing to Rattle & Pen, where I recently wrote a little something about the balancing act women live through every day. Which I now relate to on multiple levels. I'm dropping a lot of stuff. Go check it out <a href="http://rattleandpen.org/2013/11/27/balancing-woman/" target="_blank">here</a>.
</span>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-89983302631623246752013-12-02T16:13:00.002-08:002013-12-02T16:28:11.790-08:00Definitions: Nap Time & Quiet TimeDear Boys,<br />
<br />
Clearly you need some clarification about what "nap time" and "quiet time" mean. I know this because everything you are doing is the exact opposite of what you are supposed to be doing.<br />
<br />
Let me elucidate.<br />
<br />
"Nap time" means sleeping. It does not mean jumping, singing, banging blocks together, faux crying or walking out of the room every 5 minutes to tell me you love me. I love you, too, but I will feel that love much more heartily if you STAY IN YOUR ROOM. "Sleeping" means you lie down on your bed and you close your eyes and you <b>stay there</b> for an extended period of time. You do not sing, you do not play with your toys, you do not throw books all over the floor and "ice skate" on them. Sleeping requires stillness, so when you get up after 30 seconds and tell me you can't sleep, THAT is why you can't sleep. STOP. MOVING.<br />
<br />
If you truly, actually, sincerely <b>try</b> to sleep (remember: that means NOT MOVING) and cannot fall asleep, then it is still quiet time. Does that mean you should jump on your bed and make siren sounds? No, it does not. Does it mean you should pretend to have to pee or poop (or both!) once every 15 minutes and inform me of your attempts? No, it does not. Does that mean you should come out of your room repeatedly and ask for new toys? NO. IT. DOES. NOT.<br />
<br />
"Quiet time" means that you must be quiet. As in, not noisy. As in, a lack of sound. As in, SSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Stop yelling, stop singing loudly, stop practicing gymnastics on your bed. Just quietly read your books, or quietly play with the toys in your room. Twiddle your thumbs. I don't actually care. Just do it quietly. That is all I ask. <br />
<br />
Quiet time is not the time to decide that you HAVE to have the giraffe you gave to your brother a year ago. I'm sorry you miss him. It's been a year. It's time to move on. <br />
<br />
Quiet time is not the time to decide that, in spite of the mass quantities of milk and water you downed at lunchtime, you are parched. Because you are not. So quit it.<br />
<br />
Quiet time is the time for quiet. Not necessarily because you need it- although, trust me, you do- but because without a brief moment of quiet in an otherwise "Mom, mommy, mom, MOOOOOM!" filled day, I will lose my mind. That's right, sweetie, this isn't about you. <br />
<br />
Mommy needs this time to rebuild the energy it takes to feed and wipe and chase and feed and calm and wipe and entertain and wash and help two boys under five. You are tiny energy vampires, and without the time to recharge, I can't play trucks with you the way you like. If I don't have quiet time to eat my own lunch at 2pm, I don't eat and then I am cranky. If I don't have nap time to load the dishwasher and answer emails and attempt to breathe for 30 seconds, I have a hard time keeping my cool when you ignore my instructions for the seven bazillionth time. <br />
<br />
Mommy needs nap time- or <i>at least </i>quiet time- so that I can be a better Mommy. It will help us all, my little squishies. So, please. Stay in your room. Stop coming out and asking asinine questions. Stop flying around your room like a broken toy airplane. Stop pretending to cry. Stop making those ear-splitting noises. Just. Stay. Quiet. Please. And thank you.<br />
<br />
All my love,<br />
xoxo Mama<br />
<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
<i>p.s. If you missed my latest post over at </i>Rattle and Pen<i>, you can read it <a href="http://rattleandpen.org/2013/11/27/balancing-woman/" target="_blank">here.</a></i>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-21863707069118938592013-11-24T15:20:00.004-08:002013-11-24T15:20:38.702-08:00The Sick Post & Still More Things They Say This isn't a real post. This is me being overwhelmed and, therefore, WAY behind on everything. Hi! How ya doin'?<br />
<br />
The past month has been one long sick-fest in this house. (Hence the month-long break in any sort of posting or writing 'round here.) The Big One caught a nasty case of 90-year-old-emphysema-hack at preschool, and then he brought it home. And he shared. He shared with all of us. So kind to share.<br />
<br />
So then the Little One caught it, and it turned quickly into croup. Goddamn, croup is the worst. It's terrifying and sad and means that the croupy kid gets zero sleep. Which means that one or both parents get zero sleep. Which usually means that one or both parents get the thing that started the croup. Which is exactly what happened. Sonofabitch.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, this round of croup only lasted about three days, but the hack and runny nose and generally shittyness lasted well beyond that. All told, we were stuck at home because of one kid or another for two weeks. TWO WEEKS. Have you ever been stuck in house with two sick kids and a sick you for two godawful weeks? Let me give you some ground-breaking information: It sucks.<br />
<br />
We watched so much PBS Kids and Sprout and Disney Jr. that I thought all of our brains were going to explode. Even the KIDS got tired of T.V. That does not happen. There was water, and tea and juice and soup and no one wanted any of it. There were blankets and kleenex and snot smears on everything. And whining. So. Much. Whining. The kids were whiny, too. <br />
<br />
And then, just when everyone started to get better and feel human again, the Big One got nauseous on the swings during a park date with his dad, and puked all over the car. And you know what sucks even more than two weeks of house arrest? Puke in a car. And trying to get puke OUT of a car. It's no small feat, my friends. Booster seat covers- not washable. Actual seats in the car? Spot clean, only. Seat belts? IMPOSSIBLE TO CLEAN. Even the end-all, be-all of puke cleaning- the MAGICAL Nature's Miracle (no seriously, it is amazing, and they didn't even pay me to say that)- couldn't get the puke smell out of the seat belt. That little bugger got soaked 3 times AND wiped down with soap and water AND got a good Febreezing... and it still smells a bit vomity. <br />
<br />
If you teach your children nothing else, teach them to vomit AWAY from the seat belt.<br />
<br />
Or, better yet, teach them to TELL YOU when they're going to vomit. <br />
<br />
But you guys, in spite of all those bodily fluids and all the whining and the general ick, something amazing happened. Some good came out of this darkness. <br />
<br />
And here it is: The Little One learned to use his Coughing Corner. It's a whole new world, people. <br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
And here are some cute things my kids are saying lately:<br />
<br />
<u>Little One</u><br />
-fweet = sweet<br />
-pupcakes = cupcakes<br />
-fweeszers = scissors<br />
-schrank = drink<br />
<br />
While eating a salami sandwich: "Lawmi! Deeeeewishus!"<br />
<br />
<u>Big One</u><br />
- mackin = napkin<br />
<br />
-Explaining digestion: "When you eat something, if it's too hot, you spit it out. If it's too cold, you spit it out. If it's just right, you swallow it and it goes down your mouth, into your froat, and into your belly. Then it goes around your belly, to your pooper section."<br />
<br />
Your pooper section. The more you know, people!Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-32016314452725941602013-10-26T18:49:00.000-07:002013-10-26T18:49:13.595-07:00Department of Redundancy DepartmentI spend all day every day saying the same things over and over and over.<br />
<br />
"Stop running."<br />
"Quiet feet."<br />
"No jumping off of the furniture."<br />
"No screaming."<br />
"No bashing."<br />
"No hitting."<br />
"Stop taking your brother's toys."<br />
"No pushing."<br />
"No kicking."<br />
"No bonking."<br />
"No screaming."<br />
"Flush the toilet."<br />
"Use your words."<br />
"STOP RUNNING."<br />
<br />
I am losing my mind, people. We are living in an apartment with a cranky downstairs neighbor, and my kids just have to alter their behavior. It's not fair, but they have to. They just do. But they will not. AND I AM GOING FUCKING CRAZY. I am repeating myself so often that I'm annoying even myself, and I'm starting to feel like the teacher in Charlie Brown cartoons. Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah, wah.<br />
<br />
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I can't. I cannot repeat myself anymore. They're not listening and I've said everything so many times that it's beyond redundant. It's too much. It's too much for them to listen to, it's too much for me, it's too much for everyone. We're all gonna end up in the loony bin if this continues.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
So. We're trying something new. We're going to try a book that a number of people have recommended and hope like hell that it does the trick. And if it does work, I will sing the name of said book loud and clear for all to hear. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It's time. We all need to shut the hell up and get along. Or else... they're coming to take me away, ha ha!</div>
<br />Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-42858736216893711932013-09-16T11:31:00.002-07:002013-09-16T11:33:44.351-07:00Somewhere Over the RainbowYesterday, I came across a picture of myself holding the Little One under a rainbow. I'd forgotten about that day.<br />
<br />
We'd spent the afternoon at a friend's house, enjoying ourselves, but also realizing that we've ended up a bit on the periphery these days. Not by anyone's intention, just circumstantially. We don't go out much- we can't because money (none) and kids (two)- and we don't socialize nearly as much as we used to. Not nearly as much as we'd like to. We've gotten wrapped up in our own lives- in the ups and downs- and have forgotten to reach outside of our own little bubble. We've almost forgotten how.<br />
<br />
So anyway, we were on our way home from a lovely day that was both wonderful and bittersweet, because we realized how much we missed our friends, and we realized what hermits we've become. We were driving quietly along and then there in the stormy clouds ahead of us, a rainbow appeared. And not just any rainbow. This was a big, bright, huge rainbow. <br />
<br />
We were both struck by how giant this thing was. I told my husband to pull over. He looked at me like I was crazy- it was bedtime and we had two sleepy, cranky kids in the car- but then he got that sparkly look and pulled over anyway. We jumped out of the car, unbuckling the kids, and we gazed at that big beautiful rainbow for a while. Danced underneath it as it started to rain. We took pictures of each other standing under that grand arch and just reveled in the beauty for a minute. We stopped and looked. We took it in. We did the wildly illogical thing and <i>enjoyed</i> for a moment.<br />
<br />
And it was glorious. We weren't in the prettiest place in the world- just pulled over on the side of a busy road next to strip malls and chain restaurants- but it was perfect for a moment. Because we stopped. We looked. We <i>saw</i>. And we were together.<br />
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Sometimes I forget how important <i>together</i> is. Not just as a family, but as people. As friends, as loved ones, as lovers, as parents, as humans. Together. We all crave that intimacy, that understanding that we are in this together, and we <i>get it. Someone </i>gets it. That we are not alone.</div>
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I'm realizing quickly how much I cherish the people in my life and how often I forget to tell them- to show them- how important they are to me. To just stop and enjoy them. The people that tell me their stories and listen to mine. The people that laugh with me, and cry with me. The people that grin at my kids as they leap about the room, or the people that shake their heads with me as they screech and act like tiny monkeys. The people that bring me joy, that encourage me, that bolster me, that support me. My people. They do a lot for me, and hopefully I do the same for them.</div>
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So, Squishy readers, don't forget: You are not alone. You have people- even if it's just me and these words on a page. Even if it's a text telling someone you love them. Even if it's a voice on the end of a phone line. Even if it's the person sitting next to you. You have people. Don't forget. Stop. And enjoy.</div>
<br />Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-76732728608306660822013-08-25T13:56:00.002-07:002013-08-25T13:56:59.993-07:00Growing Up & A Great Article <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
So much is changing with my little people every day. They are artists and musicians, actors and detectives, scientists and mathematicians. They want to see and learn and hear everything. They bounce all over, soaking it all up. And they are becoming the slightest bit more trustworthy and independent. They are finally (FINALLY!!!) starting to play together for short periods without screeching, so from time to time, I get a moment to myself. Sometimes I can pee without an audience, you guys! It's a miracle!<br />
<br />
And I can talk to them. I can talk <i>with</i> them, and it is such a pleasure it catches me off guard sometimes. <br />
<br />
The Little One's speech is growing by the day and he's able to tell me so much more about what he thinks about and observes around him. He can tell me what "fwaired" him in the shadows behind the door. He can explain his nightmares to me (in simple terms, but still). He can tell me when and where he's hurt. And he tell me when he's excited about something. He can tell me me loves me, or wants a kiss, or wants to "cwimb on yap and wead a book." He surprises me on a daily basis with his new tricks, and though he also surprises me with the depth of his stubbornness and willingness to test me, I adore that little boy to pieces.<br />
<u><br /></u>
The Big One. So big! He is so expressive now. He's picking up words left and right and- to my delight- is using them. Correctly! His context is spot on, and he gets it. My English teacher heart soars with every new word. He's picked up gorgeous, humongous, enormous, and glum. And he's used them all. I cannot tell you how much I love it when he asks what a word means, and I watch him absorb the meaning as I explain. My wonderful little word sponge. <br />
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They are so big already. It happens so quickly. I've found myself drawn to pictures of them both as babies, as though I can preserve that tiny part of them if I just remember. If I only remember. But they're no different. They are bigger, more capable, naughtier... but they are still the same babies that I held and cuddled back then. I look at the pictures and I see the same expressions, the same mischievous grins, the same goofiness, the same heart-breaking quiver when they'd begin to cry. They are the same. My babies. Always my babies.<br />
<br />
Here's a bit of their latest adorableness. Enjoy and swoon with me at their preciousness, won't you?<br />
<u><br /></u>
<u>Little One:</u><br />
Thomas = hummus (this may tell you where his loyalties lie...)<br />
Frinkle far = Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star (That one took a while to figure out. I kept thinking about <a href="http://crappypictures.com/farkles-the-unicorn/" target="_blank">Farkles the Unicorn</a>.)<br />
Fwaired = scared<br />
Fweep = either sleep or sweep, depending on context<br />
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<u>Big One:</u><br />
After seeing a picture of me at my wedding, the Big One said, "Mommy, why are you wearing a blanket on your head?" Touche, little dude.<br />
<br />
"Mommy, you're a real superhero." Damn skippy.<br />
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"I feel glum." Well, then.<br />
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* * *<br />
Also, in case you don't follow me on Facebook (<a href="https://www.facebook.com/BecomingSquishy" target="_blank">HEY! YOU SHOULD FOLLOW ME ON FACEBOOK</a>!!!), here is an article that is in beautiful opposition to all the "lean in" and "opt out" articles popping up all over the place. It rings true for me, and likely rings true for many of you, too.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/opinion/2013/08/201381615448464851.html" target="_blank">"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">For the average married mother of small children, it is often cheaper to stay home - even if she would prefer to be in the workforce. It is hard to "lean in" when you are priced out."</span></a>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-82108807597744966342013-08-06T16:58:00.001-07:002013-08-07T16:29:38.377-07:00Love LetterDear Sweet Boys,<br />
<br />
I love you. I really do. Sometimes I can hardly contain the amount of love I have for the two of you. I want to swoop you up and cover you with kisses. I want to hug you until the sun goes down. I want to sing to you and smooth your hair and play with your little fingers and toes. <br />
<br />
But I can't. Because you keep making that awful hooting sound. You know the one. The one can shakes the bones of my skull. The one that makes my eye twitch and my blood pressure go through the roof. The one that I ask you- over and over, every single day- to STOP MAKING. That hoot. <br />
<br />
Quit it, please. It's horrible. It makes me crazy. It gets in the way of my adoring you. Nothing you do will ever make me stop loving you, but when the two of you start hooting together, I'm afraid my head will explode.<br />
<br />
So remember: I love you, and no hooting. Ever.<br />
<br />
Thank you, my darlings.<br />
MamaShannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-67512971626327728282013-07-25T15:50:00.000-07:002013-07-27T19:53:22.869-07:00I Did Not See That ComingThere are a great many things about parenthood that never crossed my mind. I knew it would be hard sometimes, trying even, but I didn't think about the ridiculous minutia that would eat up my life. None of this is major. None of it keeps me up at night. None of it is newsworthy. <br />
<br />
And yet. Good god. It's the little things. It's the little good things that make me love this parenting gig, and it's the little annoying things that make me want to rip my hair out. There are plenty of both, but these are some of the annoying variety that make me stop in my tracks on a daily basis and go, "Really? REALLY?" Which probably makes me look really crazy.<br />
<br />
Here are just <i>some</i> of the things that I did not anticipate:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Every second of food preparation takes time. You know it's going to be complicated when they're babies, but you think it's going to get easier as they get older. They'll eat what I eat! Maybe. But I still have to cut up <i>grapes</i> for the love of god. Everything needs to be triple washed. Not too hot, not too cold. Placed in the correct receptacle. Provided with the correct utensil. Anything goes awry and it is rejected.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Sleep is a production. Like a full-on, directors, grips, make-up artist, craft service table, special lighting, sound check, dress rehearsal with costumes <i>production</i>. And it has to be exactly the same every. single. time. or there will be no sleep. And oh holy hell, we all need the sleep.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>The screaming. There is a lot of screaming. Usually it comes from them, but (unfortunately) sometimes it comes from us. And it is just so... LOUD. You hear other kids screaming and you think, "Not my kid!" And then it <i>is</i> your kid and you're like, "Well, shit."</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>That I really would never get to eat a warm meal again. Again, this was one of the things where I was like, "Not me! I will not cater to every tiny desire my kids have. Nope!" But then, it's real life, and your kid becomes a vacuum cleaner, so by the time you've finished triple-washing and cutting the organic grapes into quarters, you plop them down in front of your kid, who INHALES them and immediately thrusts the bowl at you with, "More." Damn it.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Leaving the house will take at least half an hour (with an additional 15 minutes for each additional kid) and you will <i>always </i>forget something. The diaper/potty, shoes, jacket, snacks, drink production is relentless. I keep thinking it will get easier and faster, but it <i>never does</i>.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>I am no longer capable of talking on the phone or carrying on an intelligent, adult conversation. If the kids are awake, they interrupt every 5 seconds. If the kids are not awake, I am too tired to carry on an intelligent adult conversation pass the remote please.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Every one of my anxieties would be quadrupled in reference to my kids. I would begin to have horrible fantasies about all the possible harm that could befall my little babies. I would worry endlessly (beyond my usual psychotic barrage of worries) about all the things that have happened or might have happened or could happen if x, y, or z were to occur. I would have to stop reading any and all books about parenting or children because of the sheer volume of anxieties said books create in me. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>That I would become a nutty mama bear type. I didn't think I would be so protective of my kids. I thought I would be able to remain logical (HA!) and see when I needed to let them figure things out and when they were, in fact, being assholes. But holy shit is that a struggle! Every fiber of my being wants to coddle them and protect them and rip the face off of anyone who hurts them or their feelings. But I don't. I mostly don't. It's still hard, though. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>I now cry at the drop of a hat. I was never the weepy type. I used to cry (and when I did, BOY did I), but never as easily as I do now. Now, if you look at me funny, I may burst into tears. Show me a picture of a brand new baby = misty. Commercials involving children going away to college? Waterworks. Movies or TV shows where kids may be in danger? Hysterical sobbing. I could barely watch The Hangover because I spent the entire movie worrying about that poor (FICTIONAL!) baby. I am a lunatic. A weepy, sobbing lunatic.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>I will never, ever sleep again and Daylight Savings will become the worst thing that's ever happened to me... twice a year. I knew sleep would be tough while they were babies, but I did not realize that I would become freakishly attuned to their every tiny noise and that said tiny noises would continue to wake me up until the end of time.</li>
</ul>
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On the upside, I did not anticipate the level of joy and wonder these kids would bring into my life. I underestimated the amount of love I was capable of feeling in a single moment. I had no idea the kind of glee my own kids could bring out in me. I hadn't the faintest idea how much enjoyment I would cull from a single snuggle. So there is that. There is definitely that.<br />
<br />
<b>UPDATE:</b> A friend reminded me of another thing I did not see coming<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>That I would be constantly exhausted for the rest of my life. No matter how much sleep I get, no matter how much coffee I drink, even when I'm filled with glee and sunshine and kittens and rainbows... still. so. tired.</li>
</ul>
</div>
Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-47178828716632770082013-07-12T22:41:00.001-07:002013-07-12T22:41:22.039-07:00Night Terrors, Nursemaid's Elbow, Barf and Fireworks... OH MY.Well. That was a week. <br />
<br />
Last week was tricky. Last week was tricky enough that I couldn't really write about it until this week. <br />
<br />
Hi Last Week! I'm looking at you with some distance! I have perspective! And you still suck!<br />
<br />
First up: Our first foray into night terrors. <br />
I had heard of night terrors and know a few people whose kids have had them, but I didn't know any real details. I was hoping we might have passed that window. <br />
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We did not pass that window. Apparently, that window is open.<br />
<br />
I was watching T.V. one day last week while my husband was out running errands, and I heard this strange gaspy noise over the monitor. It was quick, and I wasn't sure what I'd heard, so I turned down the sound on the T.V. and listened closely. I heard it again- a strange, sudden gasping- followed by a sudden cry. I jumped off the couch and ran to the Big One's room, where I found him gasping and panting, looking panicked on his bed. I asked him if he was okay, if he'd had a bad dream, and he started to sob. He started to cry so hard that he began to hyperventilate- something he's done since he was a tiny baby- and then started to cough and gag and choke on the coughs. I pulled him into my lap and he pushed me away; trying to calm him only seemed to make it worse. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. I wasn't sure if he was terrified from some awful dream, or if he was having his first asthma attack (his father has asthma and I'm constantly terrified that he'll get it as well), or if something was seriously, frighteningly wrong.<br />
<br />
In the middle of this, my husband walked in the door and saw what was going on. He was equally confused and also tried to comfort our son, but got the same reaction. It only seemed to upset the Big One more. We asked if he wanted to lie down and sleep, and he said yes, and then hiccuped and gasped himself to sleep. We must have checked on him eight times before going to bed that night, but he seemed fine. His breathing normalized fairly quickly and he slept fine the rest of the night.<br />
<br />
In the morning, I asked him about this episode, asked him if he'd had a bad dream. He had no idea what I was talking about. This child has a freaky memory. He can <i>literally </i>remember things from when he was two years old. He ALWAYS remembers his dreams. Of this most horrifying experience, he had no recollection. Nothing. Nada. It was at that point that I realized it might be night terrors. I asked some friends and Dr. Google and realized that was likely the case. Night terrors. <br />
<br />
The next night the exact same thing happened. Identical. Except this time, we'd read a couple articles and listened to some advice. We tried not to touch him much or talk to him too much. We tried to just sit with him and quietly coo at him until he calmed on his own and went back to sleep. Again, he remembered nothing in the morning.<br />
<br />
I supposed it's good that they don't remember these things in the morning. I think it's better that they don't recall the look of terror and helplessness on their parents' faces. Night terrors are scary, but I'm relieved that it isn't my son that's terrorized by them.<br />
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* * *<br />
<br />
Hi. Feeling upbeat? Cheery? FILLED WITH UNICORNS AND GLITTER?!? No? Okay. That'll happen later.<br />
<br />
SO. Last week the kids also caught a lovely summer bug, which resulted in high fevers and the Little One's first barf. After eating strawberries. And taking cherry Tylenol. Can you picture it? YOU'RE WELCOME. The poor kid puked bright pink vomit all over himself, the couch, and the bathroom and scared the bejeezus out of himself. Did I mention it was also the hottest week we've had this summer- mid-90s- and we have no air-conditioning and no cross-breeze? Mmm hmmm. Nothing quite like the smell of fresh vomit on a hot day. <br />
<br />
This bug went from one kid to the next, and we were down for the count for a full week. Stuck in a house that smelled like barf on the hottest days of the year with fevers. And half the couch out of commission. It was swell. But they got better!! And Nature's Miracle really is a miracle and took the vomit right out of our couch. Seriously, it's amazing stuff. <br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
SO, also. Ever heard of nursemaid's elbow? It's super common, and it's super fucked up. It's a partial dislocation of the elbow that you can find out more about <a href="http://children.webmd.com/nursemaid-elbow" target="_blank">here</a>, but all you really need to know is: #1. It can happen when you swing young kids around by their arms, lift them quickly by the hands, wrists, or arms, or if they go boneless while holding your hand (and you try to hang on to their hand OR lift them by the hand). #2. It really hurts the kiddo and makes you feel like shit if you're the one holding the kid when it happens.. #3. Once it happens, it WILL happen again. <br />
<br />
The Little One has now partially dislocated his elbow FOUR times. FOUR. And it sucks, you guys. There is screaming and crying and pathetic whimpering. There is cradling of the arm and looking at me like, "Why won't you make this stop?!?!" IT SUCKS. <br />
<br />
This time- the FOURTH time- the Big One did it. It was totally an accident, they were just playing and the Little One reached out and the Big One grabbed his arms and pulled and I yelled for him to stop and it was already done. I knew before he even cried. It happens so quickly and easily now.<br />
<br />
Last time, the third time it happened, we were at the Big One's birthday party and friend was there who happens to be a doctor. He did a little research on the spot and fixed it right then and there. And he showed us how. It was quick and seemed easy and once it's fixed it's all better. <br />
<br />
So, this time, the Little One was whimpering on my lap while the Big One was intermittently hiding in his room and bringing apology offerings of blankies and stuffed animals, and there I was on the internet refreshing my memory for how to do this. And wondering whether I could do this. Can I reset my own child's elbow? Can I? NO. Yes? No? Yes.<br />
<br />
I went back and forth wondering which was worse: Was it worse to drag my two and half year old hurting son downstairs, torque his dislocated elbow into a car seat, drive him (crying) to Urgent Care, and wait for who knows how long for them to snap it right back into place? OR was it worse for me to try and do this when, really, I have no idea what I'm doing. <br />
<br />
I decided the former would suck more. I don't know if it was the responsible choice, but it was the choice I needed to make. <br />
<br />
I'd watched two doctors fix his elbow one semi-complicated way in Urgent Care, and I'd watched my friend (and his research video) do it another, easier looking way. I decided to go the easier looking route. I looked up a million different tutorials on how to do this and finally found one with very clear pictures that made sense to me. <br />
<br />
The hard part was trying to hold my poor boy still enough to get a proper hold on his hurt arm. It was awful right up until I did it. But it was quick. And I did it. I popped my son's elbow back into place and I watched the immediate relief. And then I cried into his hair as he reached for his lovey with the arm that he had just been unwilling to move. I did it. We did it. I did it.<br />
<br />
Nursemaid's elbow sucks. I know it will probably happen again. And I know I'll probably have to fix it again. And I do not look forward to that.<br />
<br />
Be careful with your squishies. They are small and much more fragile than they seem.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
Okay, STILL not filled with unicorns and kittens and rainbows and poufy clouds and sunshine? No? BUT THIS HAS BEEN SUCH A HAPPY, UPBEAT POST!!! Eh em. Okay. It's coming. Really. Here.<br />
<br />
<br />
SO, also, also. Fourth of July happened in there. While the kids were sick. And everyone was exhausted. And our house still smelled like puke. And no one was sleeping. BUT. Because no one was sleeping, we got to watch the fireworks with the Big One. And that. That, my friends, was amazing. Watching his little eyes grow wide in the dark while he listened to these strange sounds- sounds that scared him- and watched the lights bursting in the sky.... Well... that made us forget about all of the crappy stuff. We bundled together on the balcony and drank hot cocoa and stayed up way past our bedtimes and talked and talked and talked. And we watched the fireworks. Together. And we hugged the whole time.<br />
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So there. Warm and squishy, after all.</div>
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* * *<br />
<i>Once again, this post has NOT been sponsored in any way by Nature's Miracle. I'm just really, really glad it took the puke out of my couch. Like, REALLY glad.</i>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-22298744002287425742013-07-02T14:17:00.000-07:002013-07-02T14:18:55.030-07:00Where's My Village & More Stuff They SayI have a new post up at Rattle & Pen about the disappearing "village" in modern parenting. Where's my village, yo? Go check it out <a href="http://rattleandpen.org/2013/07/02/where-has-the-village-gone/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
But while you're here!! Here's some more adorableness from the mouths of my little lunatics. They're nutballs, but I love 'em.<br />
<u><br /></u>
<u>Big One:</u><br />
"That's my spirit!" meaning, that's the spirit.<br />
<br />
Holding an improvised vacuum extension limbo pole over my head:<br />
"Mommy! Let's lahmbo!"<br />
"You mean limbo?"<br />
"Yeah! Now it's you're turn to mambo!"<br />
<br />
"up-spied-down" = upside down<br />
"up-spied-up" = right side up<br />
<br />
"Lightning the Queen" = Lightning McQueen (from <i>Cars</i>)<br />
<u><br /></u>
<u>Little One:</u><br />
"Meez" or "pweez" = please<br />
"brudder" = brother<br />
"wap" = lap<br />
"tincrumbers" or "kidcumbers" = cucumbers<br />
"Fprinkles" (aka: sprinkles) = goosebumps<br />
"fwaht-fwahts" = flip flops<br />
"swars" = stars<br />
"shit" = sit OR chips, so he very often says things like, "Daddy shit. Brudder shit. Shit, meez!" or "Yummy shits. Eat shits. More shits, pweez." I love it so hard.<br />
<br />Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-85901504428651058842013-06-20T14:18:00.000-07:002013-06-20T14:18:13.747-07:00Lil' PicassoApparently, <i>someone</i> has artistic aspirations. Permanent ones.<br />
<br />
Look what we found after coming home from our first night out in a year:<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SIkt1yZNagQ/UcNjL5CJPjI/AAAAAAAAAG4/jfU3VN8v85U/s1600/DSCN4746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SIkt1yZNagQ/UcNjL5CJPjI/AAAAAAAAAG4/jfU3VN8v85U/s400/DSCN4746.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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What's that? Oh. That's Sharpie. Permanent, permanent Sharpie. Would you like to know where he found it? Let me tell you.<br />
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So. For the first time in a year, ONE ENTIRE YEAR, we had the opportunity to go out- without children, in public- and spend some time together like real live people. A very exciting prospect, no? One of our best friends was in town for a gig (<a href="http://www.wilblades.com/" target="_blank">he's a spectacular musician</a>), so it was a chance to get out, see a friend, listen to some amazing music, and enjoy ourselves. Our normal babysitter (read: my kind father, because we have zero dollars) was out of town, but we had been lucky enough to find a dear, kind friend who was willing to babysit free of charge. Hurray! A night out! It was going to happen! So much fun would be had!<br />
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We arranged everything so that we could get the kids in bed before we left. We figured that since the Little One had recently <a href="http://youshallbemysquishy.blogspot.com/2013/04/armageddon-days-are-here-again.html" target="_blank">learned how to climb out of his crib</a>, this was our best shot at making this an uneventful evening and easy on our friend. We are dumb.<br />
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We managed to get everyone in bed before we had to leave, but it was down to the wire and pretty clear that the Little One would be up and out in mere seconds. Our friend, who is a saint, said not to worry, that she'd take care of it, and sent us happily out to have fun. So off we went.<br />
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Now, here's the thing. The Little One is not a child of subtlety. He is loud. He is rambunctious. He has never been sneaky in his whole life, because where's the fun in that? We figured that if he climbed out of his pack n' play in our closet- I MEAN, in our <i>attached nursery</i>- he would stomp around like he always does and our friend would just pop him back in bed. Easy. No problem. <br />
Like I said, we are dumb.<br />
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He did just that 3 or 4 times. He popped out of bed and stomped his way around for a minute or two until our friend went in and popped him kindly back in bed. No problem. Then, there was silence. No sound of sliding doors. No stomping. No sneaky little toddler feet padding around anywhere. Our friend quietly tried to get a little work done and listened for him, but didn't hear a thing.<br />
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UNTIL. She heard a big, loud, crash coming out of our room. <br />
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She ran in to find that the crash was a pile of papers and a laptop pulled onto the floor. And then she noticed his cheek and his hand. Black marks. What were they? And then she turned on the light.<br />
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And oh the horror.<br />
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Please note the squiggles on the travertine tile. What you cannot see are the squiggles on the wall, the comforter, the carpet, my nightstand, my husband's desk chair, his keyboard and his desk. Kid straight up tagged the joint. He went nuts. But he was purposeful! Check out the strokes. I kinda like his style, actually. Abstract Expressionist, perhaps?<br />
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My friend just turned in circles, surveying the damage. She just kept saying, "Oh, Little One. Oh, no no. What did you do? Where else is it?" He proudly led her from drawing to drawing, until he realized that she was horrified. She asked him where the markers were, and he led her to the jackpot- a little collection of pens and Sharpies hidden in his pack n' play. She had no idea where he'd gotten them. As she was standing there aghast, he started to realize that his art was, perhaps, not appreciated as intended. She led him to his bed where he crawled quietly back in, eyes the size of dinner plates.<br />
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She tried to wipe some of the Sharpie off, but of course, it's Sharpie. 'Twas a no go. Then our poor kind soul of a friend worried herself silly and called her mom, her husband, and I think even her sister, wondering what to do. She felt terrible. She was panic stricken that all of this had happened on her watch- on our one night out in a year.<br />
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When we came home, she was staring blankly at the T.V. looking shell-shocked. She jumped up and said solemnly, "So... something happened." She quickly reassured us that no one was hurt, but that the Little One had somehow ninja-ed his way out of bed and had gone a-huntin' around our bedroom. Where he had found Sharpies. And used them. Liberally.<br />
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Both my husband and I clapped our hands over our mouths, and then started to laugh. She was clearly so mortified and obviously felt responsible, and here all I could think was, "Yup. That's the Little One. Of course he did." I hugged her and tried to reassure her as she tried to describe the damage. We peeked at some of it, shaking our heads and rolling our eyes at our kiddo. Of course he did. And, had we been the ones here, it probably would have been much, much worse.<br />
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What we later realized is that he had climbed up on top of my husband's desk and reached way back to to the very back corner of a very tall shelf to reach those Sharpies. Sharpies I didn't even know existed. Sharpies I'm pretty sure he didn't know existed. I think he was just exploring and, in his fervor, happened upon the most amazing discovery! He also found scissors up there, but thankfully didn't try to use them. He was content to draw... and draw, and draw, and draw.<br />
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In the morning, he hopped out of bed at 6:30 and stood by my bedside to wake me with a request for Cheerios- same as he does every morning. I sat up and asked him what he'd done last night. His response, with great glee and pride while pointing at the giant circle he'd scrawled on the wall: "Draw!!"<br />
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<i>That 2nd picture is me trying to clean the Sharpie off the tile. The Little One was "helping." Thank you, Little One, but I think you've helped enough. </i></div>
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<i>Alcohol did the trick, by the way. No no, rubbing alcohol. I mean, a drink wouldn't be too shabby after a discovery like this either, but that's not gonna get the Sharpie off of anything. Alcohol took the Sharpie right off the tile. It did NOT work on the door. Smearage happened. Not helpful. The only thing that got the Sharpie off the door was the <a href="http://www.mrclean.com/en_US/magic-eraser-select-a-size.do" target="_blank">Magic Eraser</a> (bless those inventors) and much time and elbow crease. Still working on the wall. The comforter, carpet and wood furniture are goners.</i></div>
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<i>This is not a sponsored post and I've received no compensation from the Sharpie peeps or the Magic Eraser peeps. They have no idea that I'm writing this. It's just a funny story and I'm just really, really stoked that the Magic Eraser worked. </i></div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-83964417637718279572013-06-14T13:01:00.002-07:002013-06-14T13:01:37.840-07:00Blogiversary, New Gig, and Busy Days, OH MYYou guys, I'm totally cheating on you. I'm sorry. <br />
Nope, I'm not sorry actually. I'm ecstatic! I'm delighted to announce that I am now a regular contributor over at <a href="http://rattleandpen.org/" target="_blank">Rattle & Pen</a>. Amazing women writers writing about life. What could be better? <br />
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(Remember how, in my <a href="http://youshallbemysquishy.blogspot.com/2011/06/and-so-it-begins.html" target="_blank">very first post ever</a>, I said that wanted to be able to say, "I AM A WRITER" and mean it? Well... guess what, peeps... WHOA.)<br />
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Also, I just realized that this little blog is two years and 4 days old today. Happy Birthday, Squishy! Thank you to those of you who have been reading from the beginning, and welcome to my new readers. You're all awesome. If you'll keep reading, I'll keep writing. Promise.<br />
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So, point is, I still love you. I swear. I'm not abandoning Squishy and I'll be back to my snarky mommy blogging posthaste. I PROMISE. I have a gazillion posts started, but just haven't had the time to finish any of them. (Husband graduated with his 2nd BFA yesterday- WOOT!- in-laws are in town, kids are nutballs, etc.) BUT I WILL. Soon. I have stuff to tell you. Stuff involving Sharpies.<br />
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Anyhoo, in the meantime, go read my latest post up at Rattle & Pen <a href="http://rattleandpen.org/2013/06/14/learning-to-write-in-public/" target="_blank">here</a> about writing in public and the awesomeness and weirdness that comes from it. Hurrah! (And thanks for your support, dear Squishy readers. I really do love you.)<br />
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Smooches.Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-27597123610807068942013-05-27T13:19:00.002-07:002013-05-27T13:21:36.877-07:00Guest Contributor: Rattle & PenI am honored to announce that I am the first guest contributor over at the amazing <i><a href="http://rattleandpen.org/" target="_blank">Rattle & Pen</a>.</i> Please take a moment to read my essay, "Raising Feminist Sons," <a href="http://rattleandpen.org/2013/05/27/raising-feminist-sons/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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I am a huge fan of the talented women writers at <i>Rattle & Pen</i> and I feel privileged to join them. The pieces found here speak to the experiences of so many of us. Read through and see for yourself.<br />
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Enjoy!<br />
ShannonShannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-41196121346990000692013-05-25T15:27:00.001-07:002013-05-25T22:00:29.175-07:00Alone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3jk3vOMUNx0/UaE5JFJUHhI/AAAAAAAAAGo/lYpe_dE4_ok/s1600/brugh+(9+of+164).jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="236" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3jk3vOMUNx0/UaE5JFJUHhI/AAAAAAAAAGo/lYpe_dE4_ok/s400/brugh+(9+of+164).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">photo credit: <a href="http://katytuttle.com/" target="_blank">katy tuttle photography</a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">The Big One turned to me today- out of nowhere, in the middle of lunch- and said, "Mommy? When I'm big, can I go everywhere with my family? I want to stay with my family. I don't want to be alone. I'm scared to be all alone."</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">And then my heart broke into a million little pieces.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">Earlier today, he and the Little One ran ahead of my husband and me in the hallway. They jumped into the elevator before we even turned the corner. They are normally so good about waiting for us. But this time, this time they forgot. And as we turned the corner and the elevator doors closed, I heard the Big One yell quietly in surprise, "Nooooo!!!!" </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">We ran as fast as we could, but we couldn't get to the elevator before it started moving. They had already pushed the buttons inside when the doors closed. My husband bolted down the staircase and I waited where I was, in case they followed the directions I had once given them to stay where they were. I was hoping they would come right back. But they didn't. I could hear the Big One whimpering softly. He was scared. I listened as the elevator stopped at this floor, and then that one. I didn't know which. And then I couldn't hear them anymore. And I couldn't hear my husband. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">I started to yell through the elevator doors, hoping they could hear me. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">"Are you okay? Boys?!? Babe, do you have them?"</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">Nobody answered.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">I opened the door to the concrete stairwell and yelled down the staircase.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">"Did you get them? Are they there? BOYS?!?"</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">Still nothing. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">I had no idea what to do. The elevator was still moving up and down, up and down, but I couldn't hear them anymore. Was I supposed to stay? Should I run down and try to find them? What do I do?</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">I was pressing the elevator button and trying to listen in the stairwell and the elevator shaft, when I finally heard them. I heard my husband quietly telling them that he was frightened. How scary that was. That they mustn't ever do that again.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">The doors opened. The Big One walked out, looking stunned, and wrapped his arms around my legs.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">"Mommy. I was lost. I didn't want to be alone. I lost my family." </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">I knelt down and hugged him. I told him how scary that was. How I didn't know where he was or how to get to him. I told him that he must never do that again. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">The Little One bounded around us, unfazed and babbling excitedly about his adventure. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">"Mommy! Lost!"</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">We talked about what happened with the Big One as we walked back down the hallway- how he shouldn't have run ahead, how we've talked about this before. We told him he'd done a good job staying with his little brother and that he kept him safe, and that was good. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">I asked my husband where he'd found them, and he told me they were the first place he looked- the lobby of our building. We never go to the lobby. I have no idea why they got off there. I asked my husband why he went there first, since it seemed most likely that they'd have gone to the garage where we were headed. He shrugged. Said he had no idea. He just went there first because it was the closest to the street. And if they'd gone out into the street...</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">I shook my head. That wouldn't have been where I would have looked. I'm glad he went down the stairs instead of me. I told the Big One it might have taken me a while to find them, and that scared me. I asked him to please, please, never do that again. He nodded, but he just kept saying the same thing over and over.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">"I lost my family. I was alone. I lost my family."</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">* * *</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">I see so much of myself in this little big boy of mine. Some of it fills me with pride, and some of it makes me worry for him. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">I know his fear of being alone. I had the very same fear when I was a little girl. In some ways, I still do.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">I got lost riding my bike to a park one day when I was seven and very nearly lost my little mind. I was inconsolable. People stopped their cars on the street to see if I was okay. I wasn't.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">They helped me find my way, eventually, but the seed was already planted. I could get left behind. I could be left alone.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">When I was eight, my parents tried to leave me home alone for a reasonably short period of time because they couldn't find a babysitter. I was a responsible little girl and was perfectly capable of staying home alone for a little while. But I had never stayed home alone, and I was terrified. I begged my mother to stay home, to find me a sitter, anything but leave me alone. I remember so clearly the feeling of panic, tears streaming down my face as I pleaded not to be left alone. As I tried to explain how frightened I was.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">When my mom tried to leave, I completely lost it. I sobbed and screamed and shook and implored. She tried to reason with me, to tell me that I would be fine. That it would be okay. I didn't believe her. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">Eventually, she made the 400 necessary phone calls and found someone who was willing to drop everything and come over. And I can still feel the absolute relief I felt at that moment- the solace of knowing that I would not be alone.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">I don't know how this fear became so entrenched in me, and I don't know how I managed to pass it along to my son. I hope I can teach him that it's okay to be alone. That, sometimes, alone is wonderful. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">But until then, I will teach him that I am here. That he is loved and supported by his family. That we are watching out for him. And that even when those elevator doors close on him, we'll be waiting on the other side.</span></span>Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4539331834984311247.post-32230194275987261792013-05-16T20:09:00.000-07:002013-05-16T20:09:36.926-07:00Sometimes, There is GoodOh, hi!!! How are you?!? I know. It's been a while. We really need to do this more often.<br />
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This week has sucked. The kids have been sick with fevers and coughing and have been exhausted human barnacles. And now we're on to the aftermath of the sick which involves all of the whining, but none of the reasoning. It sucks and I'm drained and it sucks. But rather than talking about the suck (the whining... SO MUCH WHINING), I'm going to talk about something else. Because I've had enough of the suck for today.<br />
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Instead, I'm going to talk about some things I've noticed lately. Good things. Silly things. Things that make me smile. Because really, those are the things I'll remember (and want to remember) in the long run. So here they are. Some things that don't suck.<br />
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- The other day I told the Big One that I used to love to eat frozen peas when I was a kid. He looked intrigued, so I gave him some in his school lunch. He ate every last frozen pea. I gave them to him again today, and the grown-up at his table at preschool raised his eyebrows and said, "Frozen peas, huh?" And he smiled and said, "Yup!" And I smiled, because, yup. That's my guy.<br />
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- Kid perspective is awesome. It is only after having kids that you get to hear things like this:<br />
Big One - "Sometimes? Beans look like they're barfing."<br />
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- I noticed a little while ago that the Little One says, "Okay" in a very specific, adorable way. I realized about a week ago that he says it just like me when I'm trying to comfort them. I realized yesterday that I say it (and, therefore, the Little One says it) <i>exactly</i> like my grandmother says it. I love it so much more now.<br />
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- Parenthood makes you realize weird things about yourself. For example, I have learned that when I am pissed off or anxious, I clean the kitchen. Why? Dunno. It makes me feel less anxious, certainly, but I think it also gives me an outlet for my anger. (So many pots to bang around and stubborn counter stains to scrub at!!) I just saved myself $500 in therapy! Good job, me!<br />
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-Also, the sun came out (in May! In Seattle!) and these things happened. And they were good.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> Kid yoga is awesome. We are stars.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> I am not as angry at the juice pouch as I look.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">As you can see here, I am part vampire.</span></div>
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Shannonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05790953674054727015noreply@blogger.com0